


Heirlooms of Gondolin

by SkyEventide



Series: The Sillymarillion [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel is here in absentia, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, if Noldor used lingerie it ought to be chainmail bikini
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29780151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: Sometimes two human scouts find priceless elven heirlooms in a cave. Sometimes those heirlooms are chainmail bikini.
Relationships: Erestor & Glorfindel (Tolkien), Eärnur (Tolkien) & Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Series: The Sillymarillion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142882
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	Heirlooms of Gondolin

**Author's Note:**

> This happened on the Silm Writers' Guild discord, I can't for the life of me remember who made this happen but people were talking about it and I had to do the thing. Crossposted with tumblr [here](https://skyeventide.tumblr.com/post/638590064991043584/anwarher-presses-on-the-crowbar-as-gellamdir-holds), though the AO3 version has the easter egg of who exactly is the owner of the bikini.

*

Anwarher presses on the crowbar as Gellamdir holds down the chest, his biceps straining and his cheeks puffing from the effort. Its corroded locks and hinges creak, and creak, and then snap. With a burst, the cover of the chest flies open revealing… folded cloth; but not any folded cloth. Even two scouts like them can tell that this is of elven make, the brocade so finely detailed that their eyes could get lost into the patterns.

Awed, they take off their dirty gloves and begin to sift carefully through it.

« Wait, is that… »

« Shit. »

Anwarher picks up the admittedly very small piece of chainmail, peeking from between the folds of brocade. There are three of them, lying between the velvet, triangles of the finest maille, with delicate chains hooked to each of their angles. They shine like silver, or white gold, but they are both thinking the same thing: it must be mithril.

« If I bring this at home… », Gellamdir says.

« Don’t be ridiculous! We deliver this to King Eärnur. He’s thick in counsel with the golden-hair elf, and their gratitude will reward us even more handsomely. »

« Ugh. »

« Gell. »

« _Fine._ »

*

King Eärnur has ever been quite the sight to behold, especially for mere scouts such as they are; a man of impressive physique and bearing, and intense in his look. But the elf next to him still manages to steal a great deal of the attention, his hair like spun gold and his eyes hypnotic, shining with a strange light.

« You begged for an audience », says the King. « Lord Glorfindel will hear you, but let us make it quick. »

Anwarher clears his throat as Gellamdir steps forward holding the chest, not without effort. « My King, I am grateful for the opportunity. My Lord, thank you. »

The elf smiles encouragingly.

« Well », Anwarher clears his throat again, « we were clearing out the hiding camps of Angmar’s forces, and we found a few caskets in a shallow cave. Most of them were of weapons and other goods, but we thought, well, the lord needs to see this one. » On cue, Gellamdir opens the chest and places it on the floor of the tent – they practiced this.

Lord Glorfindel’s eyebrows immediately lift with surprise. The King’s forehead, however, knits in concentration.

Anwarher pulls up a fold of blue velvet, embroidered in gold, revealing more cloth underneath, white as snow, the whitest cloth they’ve ever seen. « We think these must have been made by the lord’s fair folk? »

« That they are », Glorfindel says, standing, pleased like a sunflower at midday.

« And then there’s this », Anwarher continues; Gellamdir plunges into the stash of clothes and pulls out the chainmail. He handles it with extreme care, unfolding the triangles and the chains that hook the tips. « We thought – it might be mithril? And perhaps we thought they might be… ear protections or, or perhaps hair ornaments, but we figured my Lord needed to have them back and, uhm– »

« That _is_ mithril », the King says, wide-eyed as if affronted by the fact that Angmar’s troops might have put their hands on something so beautiful and princely as that.

But Lord Glorfindel’s face is… strangely blank. Gellamdir shoots Anwarher a quick look. The elf lord wets his lips. « I, yes, that is indeed mithril, my friends. I am very thankful for your service and for returning these heirlooms to my people. You will be rewarded for your integrity. »

Anwarher can hear, next to him, his companion whisper very faintly a « _Fuck yes._ »

*

Erestor stands at the bottom of the staircase, autumn leaves whirling downwards from the trees like the sparks of a bonfire scattered by the wind. He tilts his head to the side, beholding his returning friend. « Is that a countenance fitting for a victorious return? », he asks with a slight smile.

Glorfindel holds a chest pressed against his hip.

« What is in there? », Erestor continues, his expression shifting to a frown of mild worry.

« Check for yourself. » The lord opens the broken lock, holding up the old consumed wooden lid. « Two scouts of King Eärnur found it. »

Erestor peers inside. Elven clothes, of Ñoldorin make, embroidered and woven with patterns of old that carry the heraldry of the White Lady of Gondolin: his eyes fill with wonder that such a piece of their people’s history should have been fortuitously retrieved after–

He pauses. He looks up, at Glorfindel, then back down at the chest’s contents. Then back up.

« They thought these were ear protections. »

Erestor stares. « That is chainmail bikini lingerie. »

« I know. »

« _Ear protections?_ »

« I’ve had a long day. »

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Anwarher and Gellamdir did their best, poor boys couldn't ever figure out why mithril chainmail was fashioned into a bikini. No one in their right mind would do that, after all. Not the the Noldor have ever been in their right mind.


End file.
